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- Lair of the Lich Sovereign, Dungeon World -
- April 20, 1937 | Night -
The moment the Deathbound Knight moved, Aryan felt it.
Not just saw it. Felt it—in his bones, in his breath, in the way time seemed to buckle.
He had barely blinked when the first strike came, faster than thought and heavier than anything he'd blocked before. His blade of light, reinforced with layers of life energy, caught the edge of the Knight's cursed greatsword. The impact numbed his arm. Sparks flew. One of his clones moved in from behind, enhanced with wind and lightning to sharpen its reactions.
It didn't matter.
The Knight twisted its body mid-swing, kicking the clone away while pivoting smoothly into another strike. Another clone fell, severed at the waist before it could react. The third dispersed in a blur of motion as the Knight stepped through space like it was water, cutting down echoes before they could cohere.
Aryan ground his heel into the soil, converting the pulse of the land into raw life force, rushing it through his nerves, muscle fibers, joints. His body surged—quicker synapses, denser muscle, cleaner breath. Still not enough.
The Knight kept pressing. Every move it made was precise, relentless. Not a brawler's flurry, but the cold efficiency of someone who had fought for centuries and remembered every lesson. Each clash was a narrow escape. Each step back cost him ground he couldn't afford to lose.
Then came the Dragon.
Its breath rolled in like a tide of rot and entropy, washing over the battlefield and drowning his remaining clones in seconds. They didn't even scream. They simply broke apart—unmade. Only Aryan remained, and now, he stood alone.
The Lich stayed where It was, hands folded in its sleeves, eyes dim yet watching. Measuring.
Aryan didn't have time to spare it more than a glance.
The Dragon roared, a sound that felt like a dying world, and its talons crashed down toward him as the Knight surged forward again.
Aryan gritted his teeth and made a decision.
Time to up the ante.
He manipulated the raw dark energy with his dark magic and let himself be synchronised with the dark.
Not in surrender, but in mastery.
He took in the chaotic death energy—not just tolerated it, but wove with it. Wrapped it in his own dark magic, sealed the chaos with runic control and bled it into his veins like poison-turned-tonic. The corruption fought back, but he was relentless. He finally tamed it.
And with every breath, he flipped it—death into life, rot into force, chaos into clarity.
His body pulsed with rebirth. The edges of his strikes glowed with a faint white-blue light. Life energy not as healing, but as will—the force that says no to entropy.
The next time the Knight struck, Aryan met it clean.
His blade held.
The force of it rocked him, sure—but he didn't slide back. He pushed forward, driving his knee into the Knight's side even as the Death Dragon lashed at him with a tail swipe that tore trees like grass.
Aryan ducked under it, rolled, and slammed a burst of converted energy into the ground. Life exploded outward, slowing the Dragon's steps just enough for him to avoid its maw.
Now, he was fighting them both.
Not dominating.
Not losing.
A standstill.
Every breath burned. Every second demanded full attention. His muscles ached from the tension, his mind raced to keep up with the flow of battle.
And still, the Lich watched.
Calm.
Silent.
Unmoved.
Like it knew Aryan's defeat was inevitable.
Aryan tightened his grip.
He wasn't done yet.
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They charged again—both the Deathbound Knight and the Dragon, relentless, unfaltering.
Aryan didn't flinch.
Instead, he moved.
Three new clones burst into existence, each infused with life energy and slight traces of illusion magic to mask their presence. Not to fight—this time, they were distractions, misdirections, moving just unpredictably enough to throw off rhythm. While the Knight turned toward one and the Dragon lunged at another, Aryan dispersed his previous blade.
And in its place, he created something new.
The Eternal Flame Sword.
It wasn't made of fire alone. It was a blend—of life, of death, of power cosmic woven with the laws of the world and the threads that lie underneath. Cause and effect, manipulated at their finest level. The idea was simple—if all flames die eventually, then change the rule. Build a fire that doesn't just burn, but endures. A fire that feeds off the very decay it touches, entwined with Aryan's unique absorption gift and honed by darkness.
The blade lit in his hand, calm and white-gold, not wild like normal fire, but steady. Its glow felt alive.
He dashed forward.
Not straight. Not recklessly.
He moved with layered intent, weaving through his clones, mimicking their patterns. Shifting his position every few steps. Cloaking himself in illusions so real even seasoned dark magic users would've sworn they were truth—shadows that bled light, sounds that echoed out of place, subtle shifts in pressure that confused the senses.
The Knight and Dragon struck at empty space.
He was gone before their hits landed.
They faltered, if only for a second. That was all Aryan needed.
He reappeared—behind the Lich Sovereign.
The skeletal figure hadn't moved the entire fight, its presence looming, cold and calculating. Aryan had known—this was the keystone. The one holding the others together. He'd seen the subtle glances, the way the Dragon adjusted after the Lich twitched a finger, the way the Knight hesitated when the Lich blinked.
This one had to fall first.
Aryan's strike came down fast, the Eternal Flame cutting a perfect arc.
The Lich turned at the last second, barely avoiding the full hit. It leapt back and lashed out with a wave of withering death magic—but Aryan had already melted into shadow. The attack passed through smoke.
That was the trap.
Not the slash.
The flame.
Even that brief contact had been enough. The Eternal Flame clung to the Lich's shoulder, a tiny flicker at first. It didn't burn like normal fire. It drained. Slowly, silently. With every moment, it grew brighter, feeding on the cursed energy that made up the Lich's core.
The Lich noticed too late.
It snarled, unleashing wave after wave of magic—wind, frost, shadow—all meant to put out the flame. But it didn't go out. It fed on the spells, grew stronger with every attempt. Aryan stood back, silent, watching the blaze consume the Lich from the inside.
There were no final words.
Just the scream.
And as the flame engulfed the Sovereign completely, burning without ash or smoke, the Dragon roared—and vanished.
The Knight, mid-step, shimmered—and faded like a broken illusion.
Gone.
Silence returned to the battlefield.
Aryan stood alone, the Eternal Flame flickering gently at his side. He exhaled, not in triumph, but in disbelief.
It had worked.
It wasn't strength that won this time—it was misdirection. Illusion. Adaptation. He couldn't beat them all directly. Not yet. During the battle, he had noticed that both the Knight and the Dragon, though caught in a stalemate with him, were preparing for something more—something final. And that uncertainty gnawed at Aryan. For all the anomaly he was in his own universe, he didn't like uncertainty one bit.
So he acted.
He devised a strategy to end it swiftly, with as little risk as possible.
Along those lines, he'd found the thread that held them together—and cut it.
And now, as he took in the silence that filled the hall, he couldn't help but feel a little let down. Maybe he could've fought differently—made it more of a challenge. He knew that could've brought unexpected gains—not just in strength, but through the system itself.
He sighed, looking at the sword once more. At least he'd gained something valuable from the fight.
The Eternal Flame. A weapon born not of brute force—but of thought, craft, and necessity.
| Ding |
The chime rang clear in Aryan's mind, soft but unmissable. Before he could even turn fully toward the silence around him, the notifications began flashing in rapid succession.
| Tier Breakthrough Achieved. |
| Congratulations! You have ascended from Tier-4 to Tier-5. |
He blinked. His heart skipped for a beat—not out of surprise, but something quieter, deeper. Relief. Validation. He had made it through.
| You have gained 1500 Meta Points (MP) for achieving Tier-5. |
The number glowed before his eyes, and he nodded absently. That would open a lot of doors.
But the next message caught him off guard.
| System Alert!! |
| Sufficient potential and power signature detected. |
| Initiating Race Evolution… |
"What—?" he started, but the words barely left his lips before the world shifted around him.
Void. A feeling he was all too familiar before his reincarnation.
Not darkness. Not nothingness. Something else. A cold, quiet energy wrapped around him like a tide—slow at first, then rushing through his veins like he was being rewritten at the core. He couldn't move, but he didn't need to. It wasn't painful, just… overwhelming. Like his body had too many truths trying to settle in at once.
His senses blurred. He felt his heartbeat stutter, then sync with something deeper, more ancient. Every muscle, every cell trembled—not with fear, but with change. Something inside him—something more—was waking up.
And then—
| Ding |
| Evolution Complete. |
| Race: Void Human (Tier-5 Variant) |
The energy withdrew in one slow pulse, leaving Aryan standing still at the center of it all. He looked down at his hands—same as before, but not. He felt… lighter. Yet denser. Hollow and full all at once.
Before he could process that entirely, another screen appeared.
| Ding |
| System Update Initiated… |
| Progress: 3%... 4%... |
The numbers ticked upward slowly. The update was going to take a while, apparently. But thankfully—
| Status Panel: Accessible During Update |
Good.
He exhaled, the breath shaky but grounding. "Alright," he muttered, half to himself, half to the system, "Let's see what's changed."
The silence around him felt different now—not empty, but waiting.
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